


The Fall of the House that Jack Built

by celluloidbroomcloset



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:22:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3592725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloidbroomcloset/pseuds/celluloidbroomcloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steed and Emma realize something about their relationship following the events in the episode The House that Jack built.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall of the House that Jack Built

Emma Peel had become dear to him. That notion no longer frightened him and he would have admitted it, if she asked. He adored her. He adored watching her smooth her auburn hair as she climbed out of the Lotus. He adored the glint in her eyes at the prospect of adventure. He was aware of her when she was near, and missed her badly when she wasn’t. He delighted in her and she, it seemed, delighted in him.

And he had almost lost her. This woman who meant everything to him now and she had been lost in the midst of a mad house built by some past enemy. She explained it all on the drive home. Her calm voice fooled him into believing she was all right.

In her apartment now, on her bed, she sat beautifully naked above him, her hands in his hair, her mouth crushing against his. He loved the way she arched when he ran a thumbnail up her spine, throwing her head back, dragging her hands down to cling to his shoulders. Her strong fingers dug in hard enough to draw bruises, but he did not care.

She wanted to be in control, that much was obvious. She had been the one to take him to the bedroom and begin to undress him; she was the one who kissed him with unconcealed urgency. He was not exactly recalcitrant, but he was aware that she initiated it. He didn’t want to stop her; he wanted to give her what she needed. Astride his waist now, she kissed his mouth, his jaw and nipped at his neck, her teeth scraping against sensitive flesh. He ran his hands over her curves, the wiry muscles of her slender body, curved his head to kiss her small breasts. She squeezed his hips with her knees, and rose and fell against his erection, arousing him until he had to close his eyes tight and press down the urge to flip her over onto her back. He wanted her badly enough – when was there a time when he didn’t? – but he would wait for her.

"Tell me what you want," he said. 

“Touch me,” she whispered in his ear, guiding his right hand downwards while his left held onto her back. He did as he was told, seeking and finding the moisture between her legs. He marveled at her face as he stroked her. She gasped when he slipped his index finger inside of her, her head throwing back, eyes closed as she concentrated on the sensations he knew were spreading through her.

“John.”

She breathed his name. He remembered the first time she called him that, at his request, and it was a most marvelous intimacy, one of the dearest he’d ever shared with a woman. He leaned forward a little and kissed her neck, the little collection of freckles at the top of her chest, then down to her breast and one firm, hard nipple.

“John,” she said with greater urgency when he flicked his tongue over it and sucked, still stroking within her, encouraged by her shifting weight and trembling hands on the back of his head.

He rubbed her back with his other hand, giving her all the tenderness and reverence she deserved. How many times had she done as he asked, in bed and out, finding new ways to touch him as no woman had ever thought to? What more could he give her, this genius woman in whose company he felt better, kinder, stronger, happy just to have her smile at him?

She raised up, gently removing his hand from between her legs. He turned his head up to hers and saw feral arousal in her tender dark eyes. Her hand on his erection made him gasp and close his eyes. He held onto her as she guided him in until he was as deep within her as he could ever be.

Steed squeezed her sides, wanting to keep her there. If she never moved she could never walk away from him, never be hurt, never be in danger. He could protect her.

“Emma,” he whispered, pressing his face into her breast, clasping her at the small of her back. He could feel the tiny scar, just above one of her hips, from a fight that ended badly.

Then she began to ride him, rising and falling in perfect rhythm, almost aggressive in her desire to reach climax. He caught hold of her hips and matched her, drawing her down against him. He thrust up and heard her cry out; she was not there yet, he would know when she was. Her fingers wound into his hair and he kissed her bare body, tasting her skin, felt her breathing hard, heard the moans that escaped her throat. This woman, so in control in every way, yet he could make her cry, scream, shiver with ecstasy. He watched as small droplets of sweat formed on her chest, the line between her breasts glistening, and she moaned and undulated over him, held him so tightly that it almost hurt, but again he did not care.

He knew the moment she came. She began to convulse around him and he gripped her tightly against her feverish trembling, held her on, raised her and thrust into her as she flung her head back, transformed. Then he let himself go, finally releasing the building pressure, and let her orgasm guide his, take him until there was nothing left, until he was back on earth with her arms around him.

He wanted to tell her then how wonderful she was, how much he adored her, how perfect it was making love to her, how frightened he had been for her. But she did not even look at him, not as she slid off his lap or as they crawled beneath the covers together. She said nothing; she looked almost ashamed. The bed shifted when she rolled over and away from him. Where were the gentle, clinging kisses, the long-sought for caresses, the awkward arranging of sleeping positions, all as dear to him now as their love-making? For a moment, Steed wondered if he hadn’t better leave. He understood the desire to be alone. As much as it pained him he would prefer to leave her for a few hours than make her uncomfortable in his presence.

Then her hand reached for his, lying outside of the duvet. She did not try to draw him closer, but she held his hand. He let that be enough.

Steed must have dozed off, for the next he knew he heard the bathroom door close. He raised up and looked around. The room was dark and the illuminated clock on the bedside table told him it was nearly midnight. They hadn’t even awakened for dinner. He rolled over and looked at the thin stream of light coming from beneath the bathroom door. For a moment, he considered simply going back to sleep. Then he heard her. A thin sound, cut off as soon as it began. He sat up. There it was again. He recognized it as a sob.

Steed understood that Emma Peel was not an overly demonstrative woman. She did not cry often. An excess of emotions bothered her. It would embarrass her to know that he heard her. But after listening to another choked sob, he got up and put on the dressing gown he kept in her closet. His partner was upset; Mrs. Peel was crying. He could not lie there and do nothing.

Emma was sitting on the edge of the tub in her own dressing gown, her face obscured by a curtain of auburn hair. She raised her head when he entered. At the sight of him she shook her head and tried to say something; only another sob came out. Her eyes were red, cheeks wet and glistening. She had wrapped her arms around her, like a small child warding off the cold, seeking comfort in itself. Her chest shook with repressed tears.

Steed sank into a crouch before her and looked earnestly into her eyes. He reached out. She flinched, as though the contact hurt her. As gently as he could, he wiped the latest tear from her face with the pad of his thumb. She turned to him and he saw a multitude of emotions behind her eyes, none of them completely understandable. He pushed her hair back from her face, letting his palm linger on her cheek.

“Come back to bed,” he said, rising. She did not resist as he guided her back into the bedroom.

Steed didn’t know how long they lay there while she cried. He knew only that whatever it was that had done it to her – her fears, her anger, her pain at being reminded of all the losses in her life, the blind hatred of a man she never meant to hurt – she was upset and she needed him, as a partner, a lover and a friend. So he held her and stroked her hair and let her cry. There would be time to ask questions and for her to tell him whatever she needed to. He whispered to her, not that everything would be all right – though if he could have brought back her family, or even her husband to make her happy, he would have – but that he was there and he at least was not going away. It was the most he could promise. He hoped it would be enough.

After awhile, the sobs began to subside, her trembling lessened. She finally looked at him, her eyes still red, but calm and a little embarrassed. She pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“It’s almost one a.m.”

“I make some fairly remarkable scrambled eggs at one a.m.”

She laughed, a far prettier sound than her sobs. “Thank you, Steed.”

The kitchen was well-stocked, though she rarely cooked. Emma found a half bottle of red wine in the cabinet and poured out two glasses while he bustled around. It felt good to do something as banal as cooking scrambled eggs.

“Cabernet with eggs,” he muttered, tasting the wine. “Travesty.”

“I haven’t been to the wine store in awhile; you always have such good vintages,” she said.

“No champagne?”

“It’s all at your flat.”

He looked over his shoulder. She was gripping her elbows again.

“I owe you an explanation, Steed.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I want to explain.”

He beat the eggs. “Go on, then.”

“It was seeing my whole life laid out like that, from birth to … death. My parents, my marriage, my father’s death, Knight Industries; all of it in a few newspaper clippings and documents and photos.”

“He was obsessed.”

“He was hateful. I never meant to hurt anyone, but I’m certain I did, more than just him.”

“You were very young and you had a great deal of responsibility.”

Steed poured the eggs into the skillet, already sizzling with fresh melted butter. He turned and watched her. Her long fingers drummed on the table top.

“I did what was right, and I still believe that,” Emma said, finally. “But I never imagined that he could be so angry, or go so mad. That wasn’t what made me cry, though.”

“What did?” Steed asked, quietly.

“He missed one thing, Steed. In all the account of my life, from beginning to end, he missed one thing.”

Steed turned the eggs out onto plates and brought them over to the table. Emma set her hand on his arm.

“Everything I could usually depend on failed me in that house. I was frightened and I couldn't control my fear. He wanted me to so despair of my chances that I couldn’t reason, that I would panic and fall into despair and die. But then I heard that damned horn and I knew it was you. There was something out there, something real that I could touch and hold. He hadn’t summed up my life in that awful house. He couldn’t account for me up in a few clippings and articles. The one thing he never counted on was you. You brought me back to myself.”

Her voice cracked. Steed gripped her hand.

“I'm a very independent person, Steed. Do you understand?” she asked, quietly.

“I think I do.” He kissed the back of her hand. “Now eat your eggs.”

They went to bed sometime around two or three in the morning. When Steed awoke with the sun coming in through the curtains, Emma was curled up against him, her head nestled into the crook between his neck and shoulder. He kissed her, gently but thoroughly, until she awoke with a murmur and returned his kisses with equal fervor. They made slow, tender love, forgetful of the hour or the day. Afterwards, lying still curled together, she laid her cheek against his and whispered in his ear, the truth that he supposed he’d always known but never heard her say.

So Jack was banished, his hateful house destroyed, and the sum of Emma Peel’s life could not be told in pictures and articles. Jack could not imagine that there was more to her than what he saw. Steed saw it. Whatever she was to others, he knew what she was to him. She was dear to him, and always would be. And he knew now that he was dear to her.


End file.
